Itsumo Hitori de
by Yuki Fuyumi
Summary: *edited* Tsuzuki has a bad night, angsts a lot and is plagued by memories both new and old [rated for dark content]


**_Itsumo Hitori de_**   
  
    _A/N_: Okay, okay, so I couldn't sleep (jet-lag and all that), and this is what popped into my head. I know. I'm weird. It's about Tsuzuki. I think that so many authors write about how awful Hisoka must feel all the time (hell, even I do) so I decided to let Tsuzuki angst a bit.     Oh, yeah, and the title means "always alone" for all those who don't know any Japanese.   
    /.../ - Tsuzuki's thoughts     / "..." / - voices and memories speaking   
  
    _Warnings_: You might get depressed? No, really, I dunno. It's kinda dark and depressing, if you're in that mood, I guess. Several suicide-attempts, so hey, if you're suicidal, don't read this!   
  
    _Acknowledgements_: Who else but my neechan? You know I love you.     And of course, to everyone who's feeling as down as Tsuzuki is in this fic (or maybe even worse)... Go call someone you love and talk about nothing! (Trust me on this one...)   
  
    _Disclaimer_: Don't own Tsuzuki. Don't own what he's feeling, either, although I'm pretty sure that most people get these feelings at least once in their life.   
  
  
**Itsumo Hitori de...naze da?**   
  
    / I wish, sometimes, that it wouldn't hurt so much. /   
  
    He clenches his hands into fists where he lays in his bed. Turns over. Over. Over. Sits up. Lies back down. Hugs his pillow close as if it were a lover. Buries his face in the soft, down-filled cotton-case. Settles down. Sighs deeply.   
  
    Night is always the hardest time for him. Because in the night he is alone in darkness, and he feels forgotten. Meaningless. There are times when he is convinced that he truly does mean nothing to anyone. There are times when he is afraid to fall asleep because he fears the darkness will consume him. There are times when he feels as if he is the only one left in all the world.   
  
    This is one of those times.   
  
    / "now listen carefully this is how you hold your hands no no you're leading not following now hold like this that's right and step this way not on my foot come here try again it's not that hard come now hold like this maybe now okay step that way that's it you're doing fine see it wasn't so bad was it" /   
  
    He buries his face further into the pillow as voices from his life come to him from the darkness. His jaw clenches as he tries to shut them out. His hands make fists and he groans, then holds his breath, burrowing further into the soft welcoming down.   
  
    / "stupid stupid don't come here stay away you freak we don't why can't you listen stop crying what's the matter can't you take it here you are catch hey freak think fast" /   
  
    His breathing stops, but only for a moment. Then he pushes the pillow away and draws a deep breath, realizing that if he had still been alive, he would have suffocated. He rolls over onto his back and stretches out his arms, his pose oddly resembling that of a martyr. He shakes the feeling off and lets out a deep breath. Sometimes he feels as if nothing is worth doing. Sometimes he feels as if he would rather go to sleep and never wake up again. Sometimes he feels as if no matter how hard he tries, everything blows up in his face. Sometimes he feels as if it would be nice to have somebody to stay with him, until he is asleep.   
  
    This is one of those times.   
  
    / "please won't you eat just a bit it's not healthy for you to act like this all the time won't you at least say something please you're here to get better whatever should we do about you" /   
  
    He rolls over and stares at the timepiece next to his bed. It is too late to still be up, but yet too early to get out of bed. He sighs, a sigh that magnifies into a groan. He wishes to be elsewhere, where the world inside his head is quiet and dead. Dead, as he is. After so many years, the thought still frightens him.   
  
    / "tsuzuki stop moping you can't be like this every time so stop acting like a baby when you're a grown man we cannot treat you any differently from the rest you know so shape up and pull yourself together or i'll find myself another partner" /   
  
    He crawls out of bed and on all four he manages to make his way into the bathroom where he hoists himself into the shower and turns the water on. The tiles are cold against his skin. He pulls off his tee shirt and leans back to feel the cold. He lets the water run just a degree or so above lukewarm, to keep him from shivering. He huddles up in a corner, the cold tiles soft against his bare back, dull eyes watching the never-ending swirl of water down the drain. It is not until he sees the water taking on a slightly pinkish hue that he realizes he has scratched deeply into his arm with jagged nails. But the stinging feels good, so he does not move to stop himself from continuing.   
  
    / "you should take better care of yourself tsuzuki if you don't nobody will be able to help you i hope you realize that the only one who can care for you is you because you're the only one who knows where and why it hurts" /   
  
    But that is not true. He does not know why it hurts. Yes, it does hurt; it hurts so much that it knocks the air out of his lungs, but why? Why must it hurt so much? Why must _he_ hurt so much? What did he ever do to anger the world so much that it must torture him this way, even in death?   
  
    The water is slowly getting colder and colder, but he does not particularly care. It chills him to the bone, and that is a good feeling. Cooling himself off is exactly what he needs now. But then, the water gets too cold, so cold it hurts. But that does not matter. They left him to care for himself even though he is the one least suitable to do that. He does not even know how to, not anymore. But that does not matter, either. Nothing really does, does it?   
  
    More pink water swirls down the drain. He will have to clean his nails in the morning. Or rather, before he goes to work. But that is a worry for later. Right now he wants to forget. He does not want to think of what people would say should they see him the way he is right now. The thought brings a smile to his lips as his nails are more insistent in their digging into his flesh. He keeps his thumb in the wound to keep it from closing. He loves the stinging, just as he loves the sight of his own blood as it escapes into the darkness of the drain. But he is already dead, both body and soul. And he is afraid. Afraid of what is waiting for him once he decides to leave where he is now. If he can leave at all.   
  
    / "i don't want to be alone my place to return to is by your side always" /   
  
    That voice frightens him, and he stumbles out of the shower, barely remembering to turn the water off. He has to get that voice out of his head before it turns him into the scared child that he truly is. He nearly falls over several times before he reaches the dark kitchen. He collapses by the small table, leaning heavily on its surface, breathing heavily. He wishes to forget those heartfelt words spoken to him there amidst the black flames. He does love those around him, truly he does, but he also believes he is guilty.   
  
    / "love leaves you with nothing if there is no one to love you back" /   
  
    And the guilty cannot inspire love. And for that, he breaks into tears, sobbing, sobbing until it hurts to breathe, and he still cannot stop crying. Then he is not thinking as he struggles to stand and shuffles over to the sink. He rips the cupboard open, rummaging through it, pulling out the unnecessary first-aid box. He opens it and pours its contents out on the floor. On all fours he sorts through the white, once-sterile objects, tears making his sight blurry. There, a thin, white, empty syringe. He picks it up, blinking to clear his sight, and studies it where he holds it between shaking fingers. Satisfied, he sinks back against the drawers.   
  
    / "i don't want to be alone" /   
  
    He fills the syringe with nothing but air, and absentmindedly watches the needle as he lets it probe the now healed flesh of his arm.   
  
    / "idon'twanttobealone" /   
  
    Who wants to be though?   
  
    / "don'twanttobe" /   
  
    He empties the translucent contents of the syringe into the vein he found and sits back, closing his eyes.   
  
    / "i don't want to be alone" /   
  
    For a moment he can feel his heart slow and finally stop, but soon it picks up its rhythm again and leaves him alone on the kitchen tiles.   
  
    / "I DON'T WANT TO BE ALONE" /   
  
    No. Nobody wants to be, truly wants to be. The needle clatters to the floor. He pays it no mind. He wants to fight, he really, truly wants to, but…   
  
    / "what do we hate" /   
  
    He is weak.   
  
    / "those who are different" /   
  
    And he cries himself to sleep on the tiled floor. Alone.   
  
    / …I don't want to be alone, either… /   
  
    Always alone.   
  
  


**_~finis~_**

  


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Eh, heh. Short. Yeah, I know. I also know I added the "naze da" in the title. It's male short form for "why?" or "why is that?" instead of the long form "naze desu ka". Whatever. I'm just sleepy. Feed me with feedback though! And of course, e-mails (yuki_fuyumi@mail.com) are good, too! I'll love you forever!   
  
  



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